by Rory Marron
Chrishaw busied himself with cups and saucers and spoke without looking at Yamagami. ‘If Admiral Mountbatten could see us now he would be most displeased,’ he said casually. ‘He’s ordered no social niceties between British and surrendered Japanese. Anyway, that’s his view. The Americans see things rather differently. So do I. Did you know that General MacArthur has already had the Emperor round for tea? I thought I’d do the same for you.’
Yamagami was askance. ‘The Emperor visited General MacArthur?’
‘It was in all the newspapers,’ Chrishaw handed him a copy of Pacific Stars and Stripes. ‘Take a look.’
Yamagami stared at the photograph. His diminutive Emperor in dated coat and tails stood next to the rangy American commander wearing an open-necked military shirt bereft of any insignia. Yamagami felt a surge of shame. More than Tokyo reduced to rubble, or the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay, the image spoke volumes. The ‘Son of Heaven’ had never ‘paid his respects’ to anyone in his life. Now, humbled, he was at the beck and call of a foreign conqueror who could not even be bothered to dress smartly. Yamagami said nothing but placed the newspaper face down, hiding the photograph.
Chrishaw did not appear to notice. ‘Just wait,’ he chuckled, ‘before long MacArthur will be encouraging marriage between his GIs and Japanese girls!’ He paused, his eyes bright as he carried the teacups to the small table. ‘You see my point Yamagami? Already Allied policy is diverging! And as for Anglo-Dutch relations, well I’m sure you know how things are going.’ Chrishaw sighed and sat down, crossed his long legs and looked firmly at his guest.
‘I read the reports of your speech about British policy in Java. It is hardly my concern.’
‘Ah,’ Chrishaw raised a finger. ‘That’s where you are mistaken.’
Yamagami frowned. ‘What if Lord Mountbatten finds out about your invitation to me?’
‘My HQ, my rules,’ shrugged Chrishaw. ‘Also, technically the Sixteenth has not yet surrendered.’
Yamagami looked at him questioningly. ‘I don’t follow—’
Chrishaw intertwined his fingers on his lap. ‘Law and order is virtually non-existent here. The truth, as you most certainly know, is that I am very short of troops—or I was. As of midnight tonight, I am declaring all Japanese forces in Java operational under British command.’
Yamagami’s jaw quivered. ‘I must remind you that the Geneva Convention forbids the use of prisoners of war by the victor in military operations.’
‘Perhaps,’ nodded Chrishaw. ‘But Japan did not ratify the Convention.’
‘Great Britain did!’
Unfazed, Chrishaw stroked his chin slowly. ‘I believe the key words are “prisoners of war” and “military”. As I said, the Sixteenth Army has not yet formally surrendered nor are its men prisoners but the war is over. Japanese forces are officially "surrendered personnel" as requested by General Numata himself at Rangoon. I am assigning you law and order duties, in other words policing.’
‘Another war is about to start,’ Yamagami said quietly.
‘With your help it might be prevented.’
‘I disagree, General,’ Yamagami said sternly. ‘That is playing with words. You are intending to use defeated enemy forces.’
Chrishaw sighed. ‘Are we still enemies, Yamagami? Does someone give an enemy his weapons back and ask for help?’ He held up his hands. ‘No matter. Your assumption is incorrect for another reason. British forces are administering the Netherlands East Indies on behalf of the United Nations. Our authority stems from the UN, not from the British Government.’
‘General,’ Yamagami shook head, ‘I believe you are stretching a point. Japan is not in the United Nations. Many countries are demanding that it never becomes a member…’
‘Yes, Japan’s rehabilitation may take years but sooner or later your country will want to join, or others will want Japan to join,’ Chrishaw countered. ‘Either way, helping out here might well help speed up that process. Your co-operation may also ease things for your Emperor, too.’ Calmly Chrishaw took another sip of his tea.
Yamagami paused, wondering if the Emperor was truly at risk if he refused to co-operate. ‘If Japanese troops were to serve with the British, the order would have to come from our commander in chief, I mean the Emperor himself, as long as His Imperial Majesty approves, I—’
‘No!’ Chrishaw interrupted. ‘The order comes from powers vested in me as Commander of Allied Forces Netherlands East Indies. Your superior, General Nagano, refused to co-operate and he is on his way to a POW compound in Singapore. You are now the senior Japanese Army officer on Java. As far as I am concerned, there is no-one senior to you except me. I urge you to think carefully. Japan is under Allied occupation. It is suffering. There are reports of starvation, looting and disorder. Your Government is not interested in you. In one sense, the men of the Sixteenth Army are already forgotten. I urge you to take this opportunity to do good in the eyes of the world.’
Yamagami appeared to waver. ‘And in the eyes of the Dutch, too? Are they willing to be policed by Japanese? There is much bad feeling.’
Chrishaw shrugged. ‘That is understandable but they will obey my orders. Will you?’
‘One question, General.’ Yamagami hesitated. ‘Do you intend to use force to reinstate the Dutch?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Chrishaw. ‘Our intentions are to look after POWs and internees and to keep the peace. I have no other orders.’
Yamagami frowned. ‘What if there is war between the Republic of Indonesia and the Netherlands?’
Chrishaw nodded slowly. ‘Naturally we hope the Dutch and the nationalists will reach a settlement. We have no agenda other than to evacuate former POWs and the internees, and then all Japanese forces. Do you think that after six years of war the British people would permit their soldiers to become involved in a revolutionary war in Java of all places?’
‘Will anyone tell them?’ Yamagami asked cynically. ‘Perhaps if I could at least consult with my Government…’
Chrishaw smiled thinly, shaking his head. ‘The Japanese Government has no authority over Japanese in Java. I do.’
‘This will be very dangerous for my men,’ replied Yamagami.
Chrishaw sat forward in his seat. ‘I don’t accept for one moment that you are serious. Six weeks ago, every man in your command was preparing for a fight to the death!’
Yamagami bridled. ‘That sacrifice was to have been in the Emperor’s name. It was…taigimeibun.’ He struggled to find the English equivalent. ‘It was…expected, sanctioned. This…well, I am not sure that dying for the British or the United Nations is the same thing.’
Chrishaw sighed. ‘Look at what’s happening! Japanese soldiers and civilians are in increasing danger. By rearming your men, I am giving you the capability to defend yourselves as well as your civilians. You will be safer. It is a simple choice. Now tell me, General, do I have your support or not?’
Yamagami was under no illusions. He knew that if he refused he would be on the next plane to Singapore. Why co-operate, he thought. As Chrishaw had said, the war was over. Sooner or later he would be arrested anyway. Indonesia’s fate was not his responsibility, whatever Japan’s false promises to the Indonesians! And what of the Imperial Japanese General Staff, he asked himself. What will their decision be? Idiot, he thought, it no longer exists! It was his decision alone. He could not pass it up the chain of command. Chrishaw was right about one thing. Java was not safe for Japanese. They were victims of unprovoked, often deadly, attacks daily. But there was something else. They had lost….
Yamagami stood and bowed formally. ‘You have my full co-operation General but not because of the new United Nations. I accept your absolute right as victor to do as you please with the vanquished. Forgive me, I was only testing your sincerity. In Japan’s feudal wars, the captured generals of the losing side were either executed or killed themselves but their soldiers were allowed to pledge their loyalty to the victor. This is what I offer you in 1945,
a tradition from 1345! For me your word is enough. I will prepare the orders.’
Chrishaw was sombre but grateful. ‘Thank you, General. Please believe me when I say the British do not even want to be here. We all want to go home. The sooner this mess is sorted out, the sooner we can all leave. Now, how about another cup of tea?’
Mantraman, Djakarta
‘But gracious American nyonya’—My Lady—‘look, bright eyes.’ The wrinkled trader gave Meg an almost toothless grin and held up the bamboo bird-cage for her inspection. Inside, the little bulbul fluttered nervously but silently on its twig perch. ‘Best singing voice in Java and cheap! Only five Jap guilder!’
She laughed in delight. The Pasar Burung, the bird market, was the busiest place in Djakarta. It was unlike any market she had seen. It was a noisy warren of narrow dirt paths that wound through a collection of lashed bamboo huts. Hundreds of caged finches, turtledoves, parrots, orioles and bulbuls hung from eaves, on high wires and poles, or were piled in haphazard, teetering columns.
Meg had adored a lively red and green parakeet that had been chained to a section of rusting steel bedstead. When she gave it a few nuts it had revealed its recent change of ownership by talking in both Dutch and Japanese.
At times the birdsong was so loud it was painful. At each hut or stall Javanese stood transfixed, often with their eyes closed, as they listened. Haggling was vocal and intense and she realised that even in a time of shortages, money could be found for songbirds, particularly the ever-cooing turtledoves.
Aware that his potential customer seemed unimpressed the Trader tried again. ‘Ah! Nyonya, kutilan no sing free. Every Friday you pay him—only gold! Like this!’ He reached for a thin cord around his neck and pulled it from under his shirt. A small gold ring dangled at the end. Slowly he opened the cage, and then gently coaxed the little grey-black bird to open its beak by offering it a fat meal-worm.
Meg watched, astonished, as the bulbul then let the trader rub the ring over its thin, pointed pink tongue.
‘Now he sing,’ he assured her. Deftly he reached for a long pole and raised the cage, hooking it on an overhead wire. Hanging a few feet from it was another caged bulbul. Within seconds the two suddenly agitated males began to sing in furious competition.
Drawn by the new contest, Javanese clustered round and Meg copied them, closing her eyes and letting the bright melodies envelop her. After a while several of the Javanese began arguing over which had the more attractive song.
Meg had been unable to distinguish between them. As the debate intensified and the trader sighted more likely customers she took her chance to slip away to the stalls set up by basket- and silk-weavers, bone-carvers and batik dyers. Before long, the delicious smell of roasting meat drew her to the food stalls.
‘That looks all right,’ said Nesbit, pointing to a row of freshly prepared meats and vegetables on skewers.
Mac wasn’t convinced. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Och, come on, Mac!’ Nesbit said impatiently. ‘I’m ravenous.’
The smiling vendor welcomed them but adamantly refused to take Nesbit’s new Dutch half-guilder coin. Nesbit was prepared and offered him a packet of cigarettes and a bar of chocolate in exchange. Two minutes later they were both chewing on tender, spicy barbecued kid.
‘Umm. Tasty,’ mumbled Mac.
‘Anything’s better than tinned ham and beans, mate,’ Nesbit said, his mouth also full. ‘Watch out for the green chillies though. They’ll take your head off.’
‘Aye,’ added Mac. ‘And if you do, remember what the Doc said about not drinking the water!’ They laughed and wandered around the stalls, with a string of curious children in tow.
Mac was limping a little. ‘How’s your leg?’ Nesbit asked, his mouth full of food.
‘A lot better since the pills from the Doc,’ Mac replied. He had suffered an insect bite on his calf that had become infected and swollen to the size of a golf ball. For the time being he was on light duties. He hoped it would last.
Excited shouts from a group of men and youths drew them to the far side of the square. Here the crowd was tightly packed but loud crowing and clucking hinted at what they would find.
Curious, they pushed to the front, the Javanese giving way to the bigger, uniformed men. The pit was circular, about a foot deep and six-feet in diameter. In it stood two men wearing only loincloths and loosely wrapped headscarves. They were baiting two large bantam cockerels, one a bright, almost ginger, brown, the other a speckled-white and brown. Their handlers were keeping them just out of pecking range. Already the birds were in a furious, squawking rage.
Shouts from the spectators grew louder. They were anticipating a good fight. Three bookmakers sitting around the pit were calling out odds and their runners, boys of nine or ten, darted about collecting stakes.
Nesbit grinned at Mac. ‘Come on, laddie, let’s have a flutter! We’re the old Fighting Cock after all!’ He pointed to their Divisional shoulder patch, a silhouette of a strutting red cockerel on a yellow background. ‘It’s a sign!’
‘Aye, of madness!’ Mac rolled his eyes and reluctantly pulled out a crumpled five-rupiah note. ‘This is all the Jap stuff I’ve got. On “Ginger”, all of it!’
‘Aye, he’s the one for me too!’ Nesbit grinned. ‘I’ll be back in a sec.’
Mac finished his kebab as Nesbit, pointing repeatedly to his shoulder patch, managed to place the bet.
With shrill, angry squawks the two birds launched themselves at each other. Feathers swirled as they kept jumping, pecking and kicking. The spectators roared.
Mac was surprised by the ferocity. ‘I’ll remember this next time I eat cock-a-leekie, Nessy,’ he joked.
The handlers stepped in, dropping bell-shaped wicker baskets over the birds to separate them. Mac and Nesbit watched them tie long, needle-like steel spurs to the backs of the birds’ feet. Then, once again, the birds were baited and set loose in the pit, this time for the final round. They crashed together, then jumped and spun as if glued together at the chest, their wings beating madly.
Suddenly the speckled bantam staggered backwards. Spots of dark blood were splattered across its chest plumage. A mixture of cheers and groans erupted from the crowd.
‘He’s not so “cock-sure” now, eh, Mac!’ Nesbit laughed, nudging him.
Yet again the birds charged. Beaks, chests, feet and wings blurred together. Blood started to drip over the red bantam’s feet into the dust.
‘Oh, no!’ Nesbit nudged Mac. ‘Ginger’s hurt!’ He leant forward, cupping his hands to his mouth. ‘Come on you useless chicken!’
‘Get him, Ginger!’ Mac’s shout was lost amidst the noise.
Suddenly the speckled cock sat down. A large, glistening patch of blood was spreading across its chest.
‘Yes!’ Nesbit punched the air. ‘Come on the Fighting Twenty-third!’
Ginger let out an angry squawk and charged. Valiantly its weakened opponent stood up but there was an audible snap and it scurried away sideways trailing a broken wing, its head lolling forward weakly.
Before the victorious Ginger could strike again, its handler trapped it under a basket. The winning punters cheered.
‘We’re in the money!’ Nesbit clapped Mac on the arm. ‘I’ll go and see Java Joe over there for our winnings!’ He left and started to push his way through the crowd to the now rather glum-looking bookmaker.
Mac watched the owner of the injured bantam scoop up the limp mass of feathers and snap the bird’s neck with a flick of his wrist. Ignored by the crowd, he dropped the bird into a sack and walked dejectedly away. At least he’s taking home food for the pot, thought Mac.
Nesbit was soon back, grinning as he held up a wad of crumpled, rupiah notes. ‘We won’t have to barter our choc and smokes for a while! Fancy another “flutter” old boy?’
‘Why not, me old cock-fightin’ sparrow!’ Mac joked in return.
‘Hello there!’
They both turned. Mac smiled broadly. ‘Oh
, hello, Miss.’
Meg raised a finger in recognition. ‘Didn’t I see you at the harbour last week?’
Mac nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right. Small world!’
‘It sure is. I’m Meg Graham. Good to meet you.’ She held out her hand.
‘Alun MacDonald, Mac to my friends.’
Nesbit cleared his throat. ‘Oh, sorry! This is Stan Nesbit, Nessy for short.’
‘As in Loch Ness?’ Meg asked.
‘That’s right, Miss,’ Nesbit replied. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise’, Meg said cheerfully.
‘Are you sightseeing?’ Nesbit asked.
Meg nodded. ‘Kind of.’
‘Miss Graham’s a reporter,’ Mac added quickly.
‘I see you backed a winner,’ said Meg looking at the money.
‘Yes,’ smiled Mac. ‘We had a bit of luck with—’
Heavy revving of a large engine and repeated honking of a horn drowned his words as a big Isuzu troop lorry lurched into the market square. People scattered, clutching at their children as stalls were knocked over and the vegetables and fruits laid out on the ground were crushed.
Meg stared. ‘What the hell?’
‘Lord knows!’ Mac replied.
They backed away as the lorry passed them, continuing its slow, destructive circuit around the square In the back, gaunt wild-eyed, white soldiers were training rifles and machine guns randomly on individuals including Meg, Mac and Nesbit. Defiantly the Javanese stared back. The Isuzu came to a sudden stop.
A tall, stooping man in a newly issued Dutch uniform climbed down from the cab and approached them. A pistol hung loosely in his hand by his thigh. His face was gaunt.
‘Jesus!’ Meg gasped.
‘Watch yourselves,’ Nesbit warned.
‘No sudden movements,’ Mac cautioned quietly. He was acutely conscious of being unarmed. As a sign of good faith to the Javanese, General Chrishaw had ordered off-duty British troops to go without weapons.
The Dutchman wore Captain’s insignia but the clothes hung off his thin frame. He was unshaven and his sunken eyes bore the yellow tinge of jaundice. ‘So my British friends,’ he sneered in a heavy accent, ‘You trade with rebels?’ He was staring contemptuously at the cash in Nesbit’s hand.